Shell Road was south of the interstate, the railroad and the town. It peeled quietly away from the main roads and crept beneath low-hanging limbs of maple and oak. It wound between old stone walls, avoiding the ravine and the creek. It was narrow, with no shoulder and no sidewalk. It had no streetlights. Trees were a religion here; every house must be dwarfed by its trees, embraced by its shrubs.

Aus had rolled his window down, and it was lilac time, so as they coasted toward the end of the road—this car never sounded as if the motor was running—rich purple perfume drifted into the car. He was startled. He had thought somehow that flowers were fragrant only in the daytime. “What do you want to do, Mace?” The front could probably seat four. Macey seemed ten feet away from him.

“I’m going to show Nana and Papa the photographs. I’m going to make them talk.”

He had never heard that tone of voice from her. Maybe from anybody. “Mace?”

“How dare they!” Her voice was low and shuddering. “How dare they bring me up to believe this is the best town in America, and we live on the best street, and our friends are the best people? How dare they tell me all fires blend together? That you could easily mix up that fire with any old beach bonfire? How dare they pretend they don’t know what happened?”

Austin pulled into his grandparents’ driveway. He did not share her rage. He felt terribly sad. His mother had said: It doesn’t matter whether or not they set the fire; they’re guilty. And now he believed this. Only the Beedons, whoever they were, had been good neighbors. The Fents and the Maceys and old Mr. Collins and Vinnie Raspardo and the strangers in photo number seven had not been.

In a court of law, they could not be found guilty. But in a court of God?

The sugar maples and horse chestnut trees and red beech enclosed them in total dark.

How am I going to make it until Friday, when Dad comes? thought Austin. He pocketed the car keys and they walked back toward the Maceys’.

“I love Nana and Papa,” she whispered. “Do you love your grandparents?”

“Everybody loves their grandparents.”

“I know, but … really.”

“Yes, really. They’re stern, compared to yours, and they pay less attention, and they have other things to do, but they like having me, and they don’t suggest that I should go back to my parents.”

“What is happening with your parents?”

He let out a long, controlled breath, as if making a candle flame shiver without blowing it out. “My dad’s coming this weekend. I don’t know what he’ll have to say. I don’t know whether I’ll stay here or go back to Chicago.”

“Stay,” said Macey.